Before the Mockingjay
by Major Trouble
Summary: The story behind a well-known and loved character of The Hunger Games series. T for occasional language, and, of course, violence.
1. Day One

**Disclaimer: I do not own **_**The Hunger Games**_**, nor do I have any affiliation with **_**The Hunger Games**_**, Suzanne Collins, etc. However, the characters mentioned are mine.**

The gong sounds. As agreed, I immediately sprint to the Cornucopia. Quirino meets me there, and we each grab a pack, a spear, and a sword. Turning, I see the other tributes, some stunned from our sudden actions, some right behind us.

The boy from District Seven is on top of me in seconds. It's easy, with my military training, to run my spear into his stomach. The problem is he's too close. He tackles me, and we tumble head-over-heels down the pile of supplies. I feel a hot pain in my back and see a streak of blood on a sky blue backpack a few feet above me. There's a knife on top of it, and I know what happened.

I take my own knife, in my right hand, and swing the hilt into the boy's skull as hard as I can. He made one crucial mistake – he didn't bother trying to control my knife hand, just my body as a whole. As a follow up, I bring the knife down between his shoulder blades, and the blade slips in between his bones. He drops, and I yank the knife out of his back and stumble away, hot blood pouring down my back.

The other tributes have either left or are fighting it out closer to the Cornucopia, which I stand about twenty yards away from. Quirino is on the far side, fighting with a girl. Maybe the one from District Twelve, but I'm not sure.

He cuts her leg with the sword clutched in this left hand, and as she falls his right hand comes up, stabbing a knife under her ribs. As she falls, he turns, grabs something from the pile at the Cornucopia, and runs deeper in the forest about ten yards to my left. I dig my feet into the snow and follow.

We run side by side for as long as we can – not long. After the first hour, we're slipping and sliding, falling flat in the snow. It's wet and heavy, so it doesn't hurt, but it soaks us through to the bone. Not a problem right now, while we're moving, but when we meet up with the others and stop for the night, we'll freeze.

There's another problem, too. The snow behind us is covered in blood and my back is both freezing cold from the tear in my jacket and steaming hot from the blood. It's slowed to merely a trickle in the cold air, and it isn't a deep cut, but still I can't go on. "Q."

He turns, notices my dilemma, and stops to rummage through his pack. After a moment, he pulls out a roll of clean white bandages. "Take off your jacket and lean against that tree," he orders me. I do as he asks, and regret it because he smashes a handful of snow into my back. I cry out, but his hand covers my mouth quickly. At first, I'm afraid he's going to kill me here and now, but I relax as he says in a soothing voice, "You're okay, just need to clean out the wound a little bit."

Clean he does. He scrubs and scrubs and scrubs until I swear he's rubbed off all the skin on my back. Just as I'm starting to think this will never end, Quirino stops rubbing with snow and takes a towel out of his bag. He dries me off, and wraps up the cut by wrapping the bandages around and around my midsection. I put my coat back on, and we stumble further into the woods.

I estimate it to be about two in the afternoon – four hours after the gong – when a wolf howl reaches my ears. I grab Quirino's arm to slow him, but he turns around with a knife in his raised fist. Shocked, I duck, but his hand halts. "Sorry man, I wasn't expecting that."

Heart pounding, I shake my head. "It's cool. Just listen." We stand, hands on knees, panting. It's almost five minutes before we hear it again. The same howl, our agreed upon signal. I hope.

"C'mon!" Q says, letting out an unearthly howl before sprinting towards the sound we originally heard.

The sounds change. Next there is a singing bird, then a barking dog, followed by a hooting owl. Suddenly Q lets out the same howl we started with, and I know he's spotted the others.

A bright spot of orange appears in the distance, and with it comes the sound of a bear's growl. They haven't seen us, yet, but together we howl as we march towards them. After a moment, another howl, slightly different, meets my ears. It's more feminine. Good. That means Mayla survived the bloodbath.

We lose sight of the others every couple steps as trees come between us, but it never lasts long. And then they're there. "Mayla, good to see you," I say, embracing her briefly. I nod to Dominic and Xander, and we try to decide what to do next. Should we stay where we are, or try to get on further, exhausted as we are?

"We need to put more distance between us and the others. Has anyone seen anything other than trees yet?" Dom asks.

Grinning, I can't hold back my response. "Of course. The Cornucopia, twenty-three tributes and myself, weapons, sup–"

"Alright smart aleck," Mayla says, cutting me off. "If there are only trees, where are we going to camp?"

This stumps us. No one has any ideas.

"Let's keep going," I suggest. "We don't know what else to do."


	2. Day Two

I wake up to the sounds of birds chirping. For a moment, I expect my sister to walk into my room and yell at me to get up and get ready for school. Then the trees register and I realize that I'm in the forest. In the arena. In the Hunger Games.

_Crap._

I think back to the previous night. Thirteen dead. Over half of the pool, gone, just like that. Ten were in the bloodbath. Two came mere minutes after we met up with Dom, Mayla, and Xander. The third came later. We assumed that they were probably injured and bleed to death after the fight with the others. No one wants to think about the possibility that the woods are killing tributes, like the meadow in the recent Quarter Quell.

Only ten tributes left, already. Well, eleven. Ten who will die, I mean. It's only day two. I am guessing this will be a fast Games. I can't say it upsets me.

I try to list the tributes – no, kids – in my head. Both from District One, the girl from Two and boy from Three (Quirino), both from Four – that's me and Mayla, that is. Girls from Five and Seven. No one from Eight through Ten, but both from Eleven – the boy is Dom – and the Twelve boy – Xander. Eleven kids. Six girls, five boys. "Girls are doing well this year," I remark to myself, sitting up.

Quirino, on guard, looks back at me and grins. "Indeed they are. Hungry?" he asks, holding up a slab of meat, evidently cooked over the fire. I realize the mouth-watering scent must be what woke me, and I eagerly grab it from Q's hand. I'm not even sure what kind of meat it is, but I'll eat it.

Whatever it is, it's good.

When I finish up, I wipe my hands on my arctic camouflage pants. Oh, right. After we set up camp – around seven PM last night – I changed into the arctic BDUs in my pack. That is to say, a white and black camouflage uniform. Luckily we had enough spare clothes that no one had to freeze in their wet clothes from yesterday.

I look over at Mayla, wrapped in the sleeping bag from my pack. She looks so much like her sister that I can't stand it and have to look away before a tear leaks out. The others can't know of my dilemma. The pain Hayley will be in, is in, has been in.

"No cannons, no threats. Nothing but a couple turkey things. I'm not sure what they actually are but that's what you're eating."

I shrug. I don't care what it is; it tastes good. Getting up, I grab a spear in my right hand, knife in my left, and head out into the woods. So far, the entire arena seems to be snow-covered woods, and nothing more. After a second thought, I turn and toss my spear back towards the small hut we created last night. Q looks up, grabs the spear, and brings it back into the hut.

After a five minute walk, I climb up a tall, sturdy-looking tree. I'm not the ideal person for this job, of course. Six foot two, hundred eighty pounds, I'm not going to get very high up even without a fear of heights. Well, maybe not a fear. Just an uncertainty. After all, District Four is swimming, not climbing. But still I manage to get up high enough that I pass the tops of most of the trees, and realize just how sturdy the tree I picked is. It could easily be the tallest in the forest.

Sure enough, as far as the eye can see, white capped trees. And, looking up, clouds that couldn't be seen down below. Briefly I wonder how the snow could lay so thickly under the trees, when it shouldn't get through to the ground at all. But it doesn't matter, because however it happens, it does happen.

As I sit in the fork of a tree, fighting vertigo, the snow begins to fall again. At first, it's peaceful. But after a few moments, far below, I hear a piercing scream. Scared, I scramble back down the tree as fast as I can. I'm not sure where the scream actually came from, but I'm afraid that it's _directly_ below. In my camp.

I'm still about twenty feet from the ground when a canon booms. Startled, I fall and smash twice into branches, flipping over in midair. I tuck my head and land hard in the snow on my right shoulder. There's a devastating cracking sound and I know I'm screwed.

The wind is knocked out of me, but I can twist my head to the side and look in the direction of the hut. It's no good – too far away.

I lay for what feels like hours but is probably only a few minutes, when I hear footsteps in the damp snow. _Shit._ I only just realize – too late, of course – that wet snow will show footprints. Every track. And that means our hut isn't safe, and I can be tracked from there to the tree I climbed. To wear I am lying, helpless, right now.

I close my eyes, expecting the worst. I'm about to mutter a good-bye to Hayley when I hear a voice above me say "Shit, dude, what did you do?"

My eyes crack open to see Dom standing over me, with Xander behind him. Xander has what I'm told is a "Seam" look – dark hair and gray eyes or something. He's kind of scrawny, 'cause I guess they don't get much to eat out in District Twelve. Dom is almost as tall as me, but not quite as muscular. He's the climber, not me, I guess.

"I fell out of a tree. I should have sent you. Who was the canon for?"

A grave look crosses the boys' faces and I feel my heart stop for a moment. "District Seven. She got her knife into Q though."

It's all I can do to choke out "Is Mayla okay?"

Clearly the boys think I'm in love with her. They nudge each other, grin. "She's okay, dude. C'mon, let's get you back to your girlfriend."

I roll my eyes. "She's not my girlfriend. She's just…"

Again they laugh as they haul me to my feet. I cry out in pain as they yank on my arm. My back hurts too, and not just from the fall, but also from the cut from yesterday.

We make it back to the shelter just as a second canon fires. Mayla looks up, tears in her eyes and a knife in her hand. Dom and Xander instantly release me and pull out knives. "No, guys, wait!" I yell, but they ignore me, advancing on the helpless girl as she drops the knife.

"He asked me to," Mayla chokes out, still teary, and very quiet. "He was in pain."

Dom lets out an angry, guttural, animal sound, and dives at Mayla. I watch as she ducks, sending him sailing over her head. "Xander, no!" I yell, ignoring the pain as I attempt to block his way. "Mayla's telling the truth. Q asked her to."

The boys look at me with angry eyes, but they don't touch Mayla as I make my way over to her and wrap my uninjured arm around her shoulders. "I've known Mayla for years. If she says Q asked her to, then Q asked her to. And whoever gets out of here alive will see that from the victor's chair. I promise you."

After a few moments of complete silence, they nod tersely, but I know this alliance won't last. The boys were close to Q, the dorky kid with glasses who played with wires and batteries during training, but could fight viciously. Mayla is part of the alliance because I insisted on her. Still, they only tolerate her because I excel in hand-to-hand combat.

Suddenly, I fear our throats will be slit in our sleep tonight. It's only the second day, but we need to get out.


	3. Night Two

I'm on guard around midnight when I shake Mayla awake. My things have been packed and ready since the beginning of my shift, and I added hers to her pack shortly after – including the bright orange hunter's cap that made her easy to see on the first day. Warm it may be, but we can't afford to be spotted now.

Blinking slowly, Mayla looks up at me in confusion. "We're getting out of here," I breathe into her ear. "Go, fast. But don't go too far, and be quite."

She gets up, nods, and slips out into the darkness, snatching up her pack as she goes. Clearly, she realizes we're in trouble.

I look at the sleeping forms of Dom and Xander. I don't want to kill them, but I need to do something. I can't leave them here completely unharmed. No, not unharmed; able. Able.

With this thought, I take their spears and packs, leaving each boy with only a single knife, the clothes on their backs, and the blankets they huddle under. I shoulder my pack, take the straps of theirs in my left hand – the uninjured arm – and take their weapons in my right hand because they're lighter.

Mayla grabs one of the packs, slings it over one shoulder, and takes a spear and knife from me, too. "We better get the heck out of here," she says quietly. I nod, and we slip off quietly into the night.


	4. Night Five

It's the fifth night of the Games now, three nights from Q's death. We haven't seen the slightest hint of another tribute, not even footprints, since then. No canons, either. Probably some good fights and injuries, or the Gamemakers would have done something to us by now. While I cook a small rabbit over our fire, I say to Mayla, "Some Games, huh? Down to nine in two days, then nothing else since. Something is going to have to happen soon."

She nods, silent, as she gnaws on a fingernail – exactly the way her sister always does. It's quiet for another ten minutes or so – we're well into the rabbit – before I have to ask.

"Mayla, who's going home?" My voice is quiet. I'm afraid to know what her plan is. I'm not even sure what mine is.

"Whoever survives longer," she responds matter-of-factly. But when I look up, I can tell she knows what I mean. And I guess she just doesn't know either. Although what she says is exactly right. One of us will outlive the other. Hopefully one of us will go home. Hayley is already in enough pain. Maybe one of us can make it back to her, at least.

My shoulder is still hurt from falling out of that tree, and I think it's fractured. Unfortunately, I'm right handed, so I can't fight. But the cut on my back has healed up fairly well, so I can move, at least.

It's quiet for a while more before the sound of a breaking branch catches my ear. I look up as discreetly as I can and see a pair of glowing eyes staring at me. "Mayla," I whisper, looking back down at the dying embers of our fire. I keep the eyes in my sight. "Don't look now. Behind you there's someone, or something. I'll take care of it if they charge. You just… stay safe. One of us needs to get home for Hayley."

Once more, Mayla nods, and I grab my spear. Raising my voice, I say "Get some sleep, I'm gonna keep guard." I move over to the other side of the clearing, opposite the eyes, and sit down, my spear across my lap in a very relaxed position, as if I don't expect to ever get attacked.

A few minutes later, my eyelids dropping as if in exhaustion, I see movement. The eyes. They're getting closer. My hand clenches involuntarily over my spear. Quickly I let go, hoping that I didn't give away my knowledge of the attack. It doesn't seem I did, though, because they don't pause. In fact, the tribute – I can see them now, and it is in fact a human – runs right at me, not screaming, but hoping that I really am asleep on guard.

No such luck. I scramble to my feet and lunge at the attacker – realizing as I do that the boy is Dom. My arm is stiff, so I can't get the point of the spear up as high as I want to. No matter. But as the spear pierces his thigh, the bigger problem hits me like a punch in the gut. "Mayla!" I yell. Because there have been no canons. That means that Xander is alive. And if I'm right, he's here, with Dom.

"Straph?" I hear her ask, confused. She appears, poking her head out from her sleeping bag. Dom fell over when I stabbed him, and he is starting to get to his feet. But before any of the three of us can move, Xander appears behind Mayla. "Noooo!" I scream, but I can't do anything as the knife moves swiftly across Mayla's neck.

She slumps as a canon sounds, and Xander crosses to my side to pick up Dom. He looks down at me, sneering. "She's no use to you now. Better find a new girlfriend." The remark stings.

"She's not my girl," I spit out through gritted teeth. My shoulder is screaming in pain from the lunge at Dom, but the adrenaline rush is wearing off and I'm only just starting to feel it. I know I shouldn't say it, but I finish the thought. "Her sister is."

I see the surprise flicker across each boy's face. But then Xander's face breaks into a grin. She may not have been my girl, but they can tell looking at me that they still completed their task. I have been broken beyond repair, and they know it. After all, how can I go back to Hayley, when I as good as killed her beloved sister?

"Good luck," I mutter as they walk away. Dom turns and nods his thanks, still clutching his thigh. We were friends, for whatever short time. I'd rather one of them wins than the other monsters in these woods.

No, not monsters. Kids. They're just kids. Like me. Kids the Capitol is turning against each other. Forcing them to kill each other in cold blood just to survive.

I would be what they called a 'Career Tribute' if I have sided with District One and Two. I'd have a better chance of surviving. I would have been training my whole life. Only I refused to train, refused to side with them, refused to be _excited_ to go kill people. I didn't volunteer. I was picked. And no one volunteered for me. Or for Mayla.

The hovercraft takes Mayla's body, including the sleeping bag I left her in and the pack she had stuffed inside it. The last thing I see is the red cut across her neck. But then it's not Mayla's neck, but Hayley's. With that image in front of me, I black out.


	5. The Capitol

I've always been teased for any number of things. My dad, my aunt, the things that interest me. Everyone knows, of course, that my father was killed in the Hunger Games years ago, before I was born. They say he went insane and killed my aunt, but I know that's not true. After all, my mom has showed me the tapes for years, so I would know exactly what actually happened to him. So I could be proud of him.

He wasn't a Career like most from our District. That's where some of the teasing comes from. They call him a traitor because he didn't side with One and Two. My aunt didn't either, so naturally that brings about more teasing and ridicule. Instead, they had an alliance early on with three other boys, but by the second night Dad and Mayla – that's my aunt's name – broke it off after she killed one of the boys to put him out of his misery. Nothing else happened for a few days, until their former allies came and attacked. The boy from Twelve killed my aunt, but my mom didn't hold it against him because of what happened later.

My dad stabbed the other boy, Dominic, in the thigh, and the two limped off. My dad blacked out, probably from the pain in his shoulder – he had fallen out of a tree days before. He never woke up again.

In the middle of the night, there were two more canons, but they couldn't wake Straph Ricca or Xander Hanslow. The two boys slumped against a tree, blood staining the snow around them. Try as he might, Xander had been unable to save my father, and they both died at the hands of the Career pack.

People tease me constantly about my father and what they think of him. I've been beat up on his behalf. But I am never angry with him, never embarrassed with him. Instead, I feel a pang of pity and thanks for the District Twelve boy who tried to save his life and not only failed, but gave up his own in the attempt.

Now, at ten years old, I no longer live in District Four. For some reason unbeknownst to me, my mother and I were not only permitted, but asked to leave District Four for the Capitol. As far as we know, that has never, _ever_ happened before. My mother almost said no, anger about my father's end overcoming her. But in the end, she realized that I was never going to be fed, never going to have the chance to _do_ anything, in Four. For me to have a shot at life how it's meant to be lived, we would have to move. For me to escape the reaping, the Games that killed my father, we would have to move. So we did.


	6. The Train

Sixteen years I've walked this earth. My friends in the Capitol know nothing of my past, just as my friends – and enemies – back in Four know nothing of my present. I disappeared one day and never came back. They'll never see me again.

Except one. I remember that day like no other.

I was thirteen, and I was out buying milk so my mom could make dinner. In the Capitol, you don't have to cook for yourself, but Mom wanted to. She sometimes still made bread like the stuff we had home in Four, instead of the pure white stuff they have here.

It was around four o'clock in the afternoon. I hadn't really thought about it, but the reapings had just happened in the Districts, so I was only slightly surprised when a tribute train rolled past me on my way home. The number 4 was painted on the front and back of each car in sea green, and I knew this train came from home.

Involuntarily, I looked up at the windows. The train was slowing down, and I knew I was near the station. That allowed me to get a good look at the two tributes – a blond girl I didn't know, and a dark-haired boy from my grade. Mikhail. My best friend.

We locked eyes for a moment, and he gave a terse nod of recognition, which I returned. Later that night, I tried to get out onto the streets to see the parade, the opening ceremonies, but my mom wouldn't let me. Nor did she let me go to the interviews. She didn't want me to get caught up in the Games, to love something my father died for.

Instead, I watched in silence as Mikhail was bludgeoned to death.


	7. The First Visit

They're in the kitchen, talking to my mom. Trying to convince her of something. I press my ear to the door, trying to understand what they're saying. "He's not a kid anymore, if he wants to do it he can do it," a voice insists. They must mean me, but do what?

"No, he's too young!" Mom replies. "I don't want him involved in those… those despicable…"

I back away. Me, and the Games. I don't want to know anymore, so I slip down the hall to my bedroom. An hour or two passes, while I flip pages in a secret book of mine. It's actually a book that I created on my own, at night, using the laptop my mom got me when I turned seventeen. It holds pictures of every Games' opening ceremonies – every tribute from every district since I first arrived in the Capitol.

I admire the costumes these young, innocent boys and girls – mostly younger than me now, older when I started this book – are wearing. Their interview outfits are in another book, stashed under my bed. No one may ever find out about these secret treasures of mine, I think, as I stroke the pages. A girl in silk, a boy in velvet, a pair in feathers and another in bark. The things people can design.

Not for the first time, I wonder why we were invited to the Capitol. Whatever it is, the people downstairs must have something to do with it. Vaguely, I wonder if they're still downstairs. Might as well use hunger as a pretense for getting into the kitchen.

I walk slowly down the hallway and don't hear a thing. No TV, no running water, nothing. But the kitchen door is still closed, and I know the guests haven't left. Pressing my ear to the door, I don't hear conversation at first, but then my mom asks, "Why him? Why _my_ son?"

Before the guests can answer, I knock on the door. After a moment, it opens, but my mom isn't the one who opened it. It's a large man with dark hair whom I've never seen before. There is another man and a woman at the table, sipping tea with my mom. "Hey, Mom. Can I have something to eat?"

"Excuse us," she says to the guests, leading me to the fridge. She hands over an apple, some cheese, and some bread – simple, but possibly one of my favorite meals, because while here it's basic and drab, it used to be a delicacy at home.

I turn towards the table, and the man who opened the door says, "Mrs. Ricca, why doesn't your son join us?" Although that's not technically her name - she and my father never married - my mom agrees, and I sit next to her at the table. But whatever they were talking about now, these people don't mention it. By the end of the meal, I don't even know who they are. And then they're gone and I don't see them again for over a year.


	8. The Sixth Visit

Although I'm nearing my mid twenties, I have yet to move out of my mother's house. She had a mental breakdown a few years ago watching the Games, and I decided to live with her a while longer, to try to ease her pain.

Now they're back again. This is the sixth time. My mom still hasn't caved and given them what they want – me. I'm not entirely sure why they want me, yet, but I have ideas. And even though my mom still says no, they've been more insistent. It's been around five years, I think, since they first came, but this is the second time this month.

"No! I said no the first time you asked and I'm saying no now. I don't want him anywhere near your wretched Games!"

The way she phrases it – _your_ wretched Games – makes me wonder if perhaps these are Gamemakers, these people. Every time it's the same – the large, dark haired man, the small, wiry and 'I'm better than you all' woman, and the uncertain, ferrety young man.

This time, I'm in the living room as my mom serves them pot roast. Pot roast is one of my favorite of the Capitol's dishes, but I will only get the leftovers, seeing as I'm not being allowed in the same room as them anymore. Not since their second visit, my last year in high school.

"_So, how is school going?" the large man, obviously in charge, asks as he lounges across our couch. I sit on the floor, papers strewn out around me._

"_It's boring," comes my response. Clearly not what he was expecting. "But I like chemistry. The other day we spent class lighting things on fire."_

_Most Capitol kids don't have to go to school if their parents don't want them to. But I wanted to, so my mother signed me up for a private school for the kids who actually care. The only problem is that English bores me to tears, history is depressing beyond belief (in addition to being wildly inaccurate), and I can do the hardest trigonometry problems in my head faster than the teacher can on the board. But chemistry is exciting. Just yesterday I stayed after to talk to my teacher about the possibility of creating synthetic flames, that would look and act like fire with the exception of actually burning what it comes in contact with._

"_Mr. Heavensbee, would you like something to drink?" my mother asks. Clearly she is only just tolerating his presence. The man replies, "Please, call me Plutarch. And some coffee if you'd please." As my mom bustles off to get coffee, he turns back to me. "So, young man, what did you think of the Games last year?"_

"_The costumes needed work," I respond. They did. They were terrible. Why would you put District Three in giant light bulb costumes? If you must use light bulbs, make them look more like Caesar Flickerman's interview suit. As an added bonus, Caesar would get a laugh out of it._

_Plutarch just chuckles. "Well, that's what we're here for." I know a puzzled look has crossed my face, but before he can say anything about it, my mother walks in. "No! You may not talk to him about it! My son is staying just where he is!"_

And so I have. Each time they show up at the door, I let them in and disappear into my bedroom before they can try to drag me in to whatever they're trying to drag me into. Originally I would spend these hours alone looking at my secret books. Now, though, I spend it designing some myself.

My sketchpad sits on the coffee table as I look down at the design I have just drawn out. A red, yellow, and orange outfit that is supposed to look like it's going up in flames. It never quite comes out right, and my mind drifts back to that day I asked my chemistry teacher about synthetic flame. I may have no other choices. Not that anyone will ever wear my outfit. It is designed for District Twelve, in memory of Xander, who killed my aunt but tried to save my dad. But of course they will never wear it, because they only wear what is designed by the Games' stylists.

Wait a minute…


	9. The Last Visit

Plutarch Heavensbee is standing in my doorway.

I didn't see that one coming.

"Sorry, sir, my mother is out. You'll have to come back another time." My tone clearly says this is not true – he must never come back. But Plutarch waves away my dismissal and says, "Dear boy, you love fashion, do you not?"

I raise an eyebrow. How he figured this out, I'm not quite sure. I'm not like the others here in the Capitol, who dye their skin, wear bright purple lipstick, and tattoo their face. My hair hasn't been touched and the only makeup I wear is a little gold eyeliner, to bring out the flecks of gold in my eyes.

"You were drawing in a sketchbook last time I was here. An outfit, with a beautiful flame design. Your mother told us of your interests the first time we visited. She said you have books filled with pictures of tributes in their opening ceremonies getup and interview outfits, and that you criticize the stylists for a lack of creativity or bad use of silk. You love fashion, do you not?"

"Come in, Mr. Heavensbee," I say, standing aside. If my mom found my books, then I know this conversation will be interesting and unexpected.

Plutarch settles himself on our couch and looks up at me, still standing stiffly in the door. His lackeys aren't with him this time.

"Well?" I ask. "Why are you here?"

Wasting no time, Plutarch rushes into his story. I have a feeling he can't wait to have this off his chest. "Your father was part of a small rebel group before his Games. He was expected to do much better than he did, from his rebel military training, until he fell out of a tree.

"We knew that you would be a valuable asset to our side, so when I deemed you old enough – although not technically an adult yet – I came to talk to your mother about it. I offered you a job as a Gamemaker intern. As you know, she refused."

"Wait," I cut in. "Rebelling against what?"

Plutarch is confused. "The Capitol, of course," he tells me. Clearly he thought this was obvious, but he continutes on without hesitation now. "When we discovered your love of fashion, we decided you may be of more use to us as a stylist – someone who can show the districts just what they need to see to make them want to rebel.

"Your mother still refused. She doesn't want you to have anything to do with the Hunger Games, because of your father."

I nod. This is quite obvious, as it is part of the reason she said yes to moving to the Capitol. That way, she wouldn't lose me to the Games.

"So, do you have any interest in being a stylist for the 74th Hunger Games?" Plutarch asks me.

"Two conditions. Let my friend Portia help me."

"Done," I'm told. "The other condition?"

"Give me District Twelve."


	10. The Reading of the Card

Venia, Octavia, and Flavius sit on my couch, babbling in excitement as the beautiful Katniss models the wedding dresses I created for her on the TV screen. I stand behind them, sipping a glass of water, and feel a pang of jealousy towards Peeta. Katniss is every bit as beautiful and breathtaking as I had once hoped she would be, not only in these dresses made by my hand.

The last dress fades and the prep team turns to me, praise spouting from their lips unrestricted. I take it with a quiet word of thanks, holding up my hand when I catch sight of President Snow. He has appeared on the screen. It's three months to the reaping, or as I tend to think of it, nine months after it. That means the reading of the card.

"On the twenty-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that their children were dying because of their choice to initiate violence, every district was made to hold an election and vote on the tributes who would represent it. On the fiftieth anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for each Capitol citizen, every district was required to send twice as many tributes."

Haymitch Abernathy, the mentor for District 12, won that year.

"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell. On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

Octavia faints. Venia, the best controlled, bursts into tears, and Flavius flings his arms around her. Tears pool even in my eyes, as the realization hits me.

Katniss, my beautiful mockingjay, is going back into the arena.

_Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me..._


End file.
